Life of an Outcast
by Nevelyna
Summary: Erik, contrary to popular belief, still lives. And beneath the opera house no less! But when it is rebuilt by a manager with his own plans, will Erik placidly agree or will the Phantom of the Opera once again rise from the ashes to defend his opera house?
1. Prologue

Prologue

Three years.

It had taken three full years, but now - now it was done.

It was all worth it.

All of the money, all of the blood, the sweat, the tears, all of the arguments and the agreements - they had all been worth every drop, every word, every cent.

The Opera Populaire was now, at last, back up and running.

The fire that had destroyed it's beauty, that had destroyed every young singer and dancer's dreams, was now nothing but a distant memory to some and a not-so-distant memory to others.

The deformed monster that had called himself the Opera Ghost, the Phantom, was now nothing but a memory as well.

With a new, modern look, restored stage and house, reconstructed walls and floors, new gold gild and marble that made everything shine. Oak and red velvet, varnish and polish, sawdust and scaffolding - they were all a part of it.

The new Opera Populaire was about to start it's first season in three long, tedious years. And it was all thanks to one man.

One man with an ambition.

One man with two daughters and no wife.

Lord Arthur William Davinton of England. He had attended the Opera Populaire in it's glory days with his youngest daughter a few times just before Monsuiers Andre and Firmin had ever come into ownership of the theatre.

His daughter had fallen in love with the stage and had begged her father many times to get her there as quickly as he possibly could. As France was known for it's opera and England was much better known for it's theatrical plays, his daughter felt that France would be a much better place for her talents and had ordered that they move there, also as soon as possible.

The family had arrived in Paris a mere two days after the great fire from the crashing chandelier and his daughter had been heartbroken. Lord Davinton then bought the remains of the Populaire from Monsiers Andre and Firmin for an astoundingly fair price (had the theatre been in working condition) and ordered reconstructive work to begin immediately.

Being both owner and patron of the new Populaire, all decisions were now in his, at least he thought, capable hands.

Now that the work was finished, his family would now be moving out of their manor and into some of the new, and outrageously comfortable, quarters of the backstage labyrinth. They would soon be joined by the maestro, the stagehands, the stable workers, the costumers, the plasterers, the prop masters, the set designers, the dancers and ballet rats, their director, the chorus, and the lead and sub-lead singers, once they were cast of course. They would also be joined by a stage director, as Lord Davinton was not so proud as to admit that he had no ear nor eye for the Opera's finer workings. He did, however, have the last say in the casting as well as the production.

But what Lord Davinton had not known was that while construction had been going on above ground, a life had been reconstructing itself underground.

The Phantom of the Opera was, contrary to popular belief, still alive, though well was still debatable, and still had his home underneath the workings of the Opera House. The most direct routes to his home had, as a matter of precaution, been walled over, but there were still many more that the Ghost knew of and, now that His Opera house was to be up and running again, were still used.

After hiding behind the broken mirror in his home for what had seemed like day, but had merely been only around six hours, the Phantom had emerged into his home to find it police-free and less destroyed than he had thought it would be. The Phantom himself, however, had been a different story entirely.

He did, in fact, feel destroyed. Christine Daae was gone with that boy, Raoul de Chagny, leaving him behind, brokenhearted and with only the engagement ring that he had ripped from her neck at the Masquerade Ball and then given to her as his own, to remember her by. The man was, unlike his lair, utterly destroyed. He rarely ate and only slept when exaustion had overtaken him and he had passed out where he stood, or sat in many cases, and would only dream of Christine's face when she had ripped his mask off before that full audience, and would awaken in a cold sweat, sobs wracking his body.

His mask and wig had lay unused for half of the three year reconstruction, his opera suit had rested in his wardrobe. His only joy, when it had wanted to be, was his music, though even that was rarely joyous. The new compositions were overly haunted and terrifying and lost. The Music of the Night was, truly, over. Those melodies that had poured forth from his mind when he thought of Christine whirling about on the stage in her pointe shoes were gone forever. And now, all that was left was the music of the cold dawn.

The misery that comes just before the light. And the light, to him, was death.

But when the word had gotten to him that the Opera Populaire would start performing soon, he had known that he had to dig himself out of his sorrow and help to run it, for whoever would be trying to run his theatre would not be good enough, this he knew.

And so, the mask had been refixed over his deformity, the wig had been resecured with every strand of fake hair in it's proper place. The opera suit had been pressed, annonymously of course, and had been donned to perfection.

The Phantom of the Opera would be back and this time, he would not be distracted, especially by anything as utterly hopeless as love, nor would he be denied.


	2. The Noble, and Bias, House of Davinton

**I do not own the Phantom or any characters therein, sadly not even Erik. Cries Pitifully**

Chapter One: The Noble, and Bias, House of Davinton

Lord Arthur William Davinton stepped down from the black, horse drawn carriage, and admired his new theatre. His impeccably tailored suit was a lovely shade of blue-grey that brought out his blue eyes. His silk lawn shirt was white underneath a waistcoat of a slightly darker shade more on the blue side of the spectrum than the grey, and his tie was even slightly darker than his waistcoat, but with more grey than blue. His freshly polished shoes were black and clacked against he cobblestone pavement comfortably. His grey silk top hat had been held in his hand but was immediately placed on his head of blonde once-had-been curls but had now settled down into waves and had been slicked back as a matter of convenience and utmost fashion.

He then turned quickly in order to help out his youngest daughter 'Anella' as she had been so cheekily nicknamed by her older sister.

The girl was also wearing the latest fashion gown of soft blue satin with a rather low neckline under a darker blue velvet cloak. Her blue eyes, so like his, brightened at the sight of the opera house and her soft, golden blonde curls bounced as her feet met the ground.

Lord Davinton did not, however, offer his hand to his older daughter to help her out of the carriage.

Lizbeth Davinton was not a beauty like Anella. She was not, at first sight, ever thought to be a lady, or the daughter of an English Lord even when she wore the finest of gowns. Her eyes were a sparkling gray, nothing at all special about them. Her hair did not curl, but hung in long, soft waves down her back in an alarming shade of red, not the color that was often seen, and certainly was never seen in nobility. Her skin was milk white, and far paler than was fashionable, even for nobility. She was tall and gangly, not fashionably petite. And her father had finally given up trying to find her a husband for no man that he knew wanted her, especially with her temper that was as fiery as her hair.

She wore a simple wool gown of a dark green color and a dark brown cloak with a hood that was pulled up over her head. She stepped out of the carriage rather gracefully, with no help from her father, because of her unfashionably long legs.

Lord Davinton directed the driver to take their bags to their rooms and then, with his youngest daughter on his arm and his oldest trailing after them, walked up the steps and into the front doors of the new Opera Populaire.

Once inside, they found the new director, Monsieur Pierre Del Marier, the old maestro, Monsieur Jacques Reyer, and the old ballet mistress, Madame Angelique Giry, waiting at the bottom of the Grand Staircase to greet them.

"Ah, Monsieur Del Marier, Monsieur Reyer, and Madame Giry, so nice of you be here to greet us. I trust that you like your new quarters?" Lord Davinton spoke in the most atrocious French that Lizbeth thought that she had ever heard spoken.

They agreed each in their own way. Monsieur Del Marier enthusiastically, Monsieur Reyer with a simple "Yes, thank you." and Madame Giry with a mere nod.

Monsieur Del Marier offered his hand to Lord Davinton, who shook it.

"It's wonderful that you are here, Lord Davinton, now we can finally get things started. Auditions begin today, sir, for the new Opera, Aida."

"That sounds lovely, Monsieur Del Marier." Lord Davinton said, still making Lizbeth wince at nearly every foul-spoken word. His accent was nonexistent, he was merely an Englishman trying to speak French, marring the most beautiful language in the world.

"And who are these two beauties?" Monsieur Del Marier asked, nodding to the young ladies.

"This is my youngest daughter, Anastasia Ariella Katarina Marguerite Davinton, and Beth." Anella merely nodded to the three when she was introduced, whereas Beth gave a deep, respectful curtsy, not missing the disapproval of her brushed-off introduction in the ballet mistress's and the conductor's eyes. When she rose from her curtsey, the hood of her cloak fell from her head and she caught the ballet mistresses' slight smile at her, which she returned. "She is going to sing for you and I expect that you will find her most appealing as the leading soprano role." Lord Davinton said with quite an excess amount of emphasis on the 'expect' and a hard glance at Monsieur Del Marier, who swallowed convulsively.

"Ah, you sing Mameselle?" Monsieur Reyer asked, turning to Beth, who looked quite the part of a leading soprano with her long neck and excellent posture, much better than the obviously spoilt frump standing next to their father, who, quite frankly, didn't look the part of any singer, much less a leading soprano, with her terrible slump and tilted head.

Beth's brow furrowed and she was about to say the she was sorry, but he was mistaken, when her father interrupted her.

"Of course she doesn't. Anastasia Ariella does, Monsieur."

"Forgive me my Lord." Monsieur Reyer replied inwardly thinking why the world had to give him another La Carlotta to try to make into a somewhat decent singer. At least Carlotta had looked the part of a soprano and could hit the notes, though jarringly and sickeningly. This girl didn't look the part of a singer at all. She would never be able to hit the notes for the leading soprano part of Aida, not with that posture.

"Beth doesn't even know how to read music, much less sing it." And it was left at that.

Madame Giry watched as Beth Davinton's head lowered with shame, her posture never failing. It was a pity that she was so tall. She had the grace of a dancer even when she walked, and her posture put some of the most accomplished ballet rats to shame. And the girl had such a lovely shade of hair, no doubt with a temper to match it. It was swept back from her face but was not styled as her sister's was, just simply pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She felt sorry for the poor girl. Her father obviously did not care a whip for her and with her simple dress and cloak compared to his and her sister's elegant garb, she looked more like their servant than their relative.

But if one had the thought to look closely enough at her, her posture would tell of the most impeccable breeding, her eyes would tell of greater intelligence than most noble girls, and her obvious manners would tell of the best tutelage at a fine finishing school. But there was also a sadness about her that the ballet mistress could not quite put her finger on. She could merely guess, but if she could have she would have bet on it being either the rejection of her father or the rejection of any young man to courtship. For surely, who would want the daughter of a father who did not want her? They would rather court the younger who had the father's love and, therefore, the greater dowry. It would also help that the girl was unfashionable for the time being. With her tall length, her red hair, and her steely grey eyes, when nowadays everyone wanted the petite blondes with blue eyes, like her own daughter, Meg. The tall girl seemed rather - lonely. There, that was it.

And it was no wonder, with a father like she had who brushed her off as nothing because she was not the spitting feminine image of him.

"Well, we will be on our way in order to get ourselves settled, but Anastasia Ariella and I will be back shortly in order to audition for you. Aurevoir Monsieur, Madame." And with that, he whisked his blonde daughter away towards the backstage area. Beth was about to follow them when she was stopped by a gentle hand on her arm.

"I do hope that you will enjoy your time here, my dear." It was the ballet mistress. "I wonder, though, if I may ask you a question?" She waited until the girl, who stood several inches taller than herself, nodded attentively. "I noticed that you have such a wonderful grace when you walked in here, and was wondering if you would like to audition for the ballet corps?" The redhead's eyes widened hopefully, but then flicked to where her father and sister had disappeared.

"I'm terribly sorry, Madame," The older woman was surprised and quite pleased at how well the girl's French was. It sounded as if the girl had lived here al her life, much unlike her pig of a father. "But I'm afraid that you would find me extremely clumsy at ballet. Father says that I look like a hippo whenever I do the simplest steps. Besides, he does not like for me to dabble in the arts. No talent, you see. He says that I am a shame to the stage and would make audience member's ears bleed, were I to even try to sing. I thank you for your compliment, Madame, but I don't believe that I would be an asset to your ballet. I'm sorry, but if you'll excuse me, Father doesn't like for me to lag behind very much-"

"Lizbeth Davinton! Come and help your sister unpack immediately!" Came Lord Davinton's faint, but nonetheless threatening, voice from the direction in which he had left.

Beth winced, curtseyed respectfully, and dashed off toward her father.

Madame Giry turned to her two companions. Monsieur Reyer was scowling.

"That poor girl." He said, looking after her. "It's not right. A simple servant in her own household. And the younger! I would highly doubt that she could even hit the notes of Aida, much less hit them pleasantly! Oh, when did the Opera become about pleasing the patrons with their every whim, and keeping famous yet hideously untalented divas happy? When did it stop being about the music? About what was pleasing to the eyes and ears?" He sighed and dabbed his balding head with a white handkerchief.

"Nevertheless, Jacques, this patron must be pleased for if he withdraws his support, he drops his ownership and then where would that leave the Populaire? If that happens, we may as well set it aflame again ourselves." Pierre said sorrowfully. "Come. let us get ready to begin the auditions, hopefully we can still find other leads that can sing and sing well."

Jacques Reyer offered his arm to Madame Giry, who took it, and led her, with Pierre trailing behind, to the auditorium.


	3. The Phantom

Chapter Two: The Phantom

Unbeknownst to all parties in the Populaire's foyer that morning, they were being watched most meticulously by the Opera Ghost, who was anxious to get the feel for the new management.

The conductor and the ballet mistress he knew were good, logical people and could be bent to his will rather easily. The conductor knew musical talent when he both saw it and heard it and had admired the Phantom's talents in Don Juan Triumphant. The ballet mistress and he went back a very long ways and each had a great ammount of respect for the other.

He did not, however, know either the new director or the new patron and manager and he was curious as to how easily they could be meddled with with. The director, whose name was Pierre De Marier, looked logical enough and could probably be easily swayed. But the manager, Lord Arthur Davinton looked fiercely passionate about having his own way. And that way had become painfully clear to all those present, known or otherwise, as fame for his youngest daughter as a leading Diva Soprano.

The Opera Ghost, like Jaques Reyer, had immediately thought that anyone with any musical talent at all in the family would be the tall redhead, but he had, like Reyer, been disgusted at the thought of it being the wilting violet blonde girl. And when the man had said that the taller girl couldn't even read music, the Ghost had scoffed. Who couldn't read music, he had thought. Obviously, the man just played favorites to his obvious 'princess' and took absolutely no notice to his other daughter, which the Phantom thought was a shame as the girl looked like she could really be something.

She had an exotic, dramatic look, much too dramatic for today's times. But had she been on stage, men would be streaming to court her. Maybe, with a little help from the Opera Ghost she could- No.

No, that could never happen again. Special treatment and devotion had been only for - _her_ - and look at how she had thanked him for it. Look what good had come from it.

Nothing.

Nothing save for driving her straight into the arms of that _boy_. But still...

For the good of the Opera House, that wilting ninny had to be replaced with someone, _any_one would do so long as they could sing. And then he would work from there into either making them the best leading soprano that there ever was, or he would find someone else better to take their place. And the redheaded Davinton girl looked to be the perfect first act.

Feelings would have nothing to do with it for, indeed, he knew that he could have no feelings for any woman other than - _her_ - ever. But he would need to watch her, to learn her, in order to best help her and train her.

He listened to Angelique Giry compliment the girl on her grace, which was indeed admirable, and ask her about joining the ballet. He thought that the girl, by the way that her eyes at lit up at the prospect of being on the stage - which was exactly the kind of excitable hunger that was needed for any performer -, would agree to do it without hesitation, but there was yet another surprise - and this one was no less galling - for the Ghost and the directors.

From what it sounded like, Lord Davinton had got it into the girl's mind that she was inferior to her sister's artistic talent and hidiously untalented herself and had forbidden her to even try anything having the slightest to do with any art form.

Dance like a hippopotomus? That girl? Whose very walk oozed gracefullness with every step? It would have been extremely hard for one to do so, and doubly hard for someone else to believe, which the Ghost did not for one moment.

But it seemed that, were he to succeed in this new project, he would have to cleanse the girl of everything that her father had pounded into her over the years. And it would prove to be very easy, if the girl was really as lonely as she looked. Starved for male attention, perhaps?

If feelings had nothing to do with anything now - and they didn't - and the mask stayed fixed to the inhuman side of his face - and it would or there would be hell to pay and he would have to find a new project - the Phantom could woo her, lull her into the wonderful opera that was his own mystery. Glimpses of the more handsome side of his face. Anonymous gifts and trinkets from an unknown admirer. Songs - none of _hers_ but new ones, which could possibly be composed if he put his mind to it enough. Little notes, telling her how beautiful she was, and how talented she could be.

And always, he would be watching her, listening to her, waiting for her to sing something to herself just to try to find out for herself if she could ever do what the notes from her admirer said that she could. And then he would find out if she had enough talent for the stage.

If she did, everything would continue, but now with lessons from that same ghostly admirer, and new notes, not of the more pleasant nature, to the new patron.

And if she was utterly hopeless, he would stop and move on to someone else who could be deemed worthy after more meticulous ovservation. And if it broke the Davinton girl, so be it. He didn't care.

No feelings, none at all, especially sympathy, were to be brought into the gestures at all. For he knew exactly what sympathy led to. Compassion. And after compassion came affection, and after affection came love. So there could be no sympathy.

He would do everything for the good of the Opera House - and his own ears - and for nothing more.


	4. Lizbeth Elanor Davinton

Chapter Three: Lizbeth Elanor Davinton

Beth Davinton, daughter of Lord Arthur Davinton, was lost.

She had, at the loud insistence of her father, hurried away from the lavish entry hall and down the dimly lit passage that he and her sister had passed through moments before. She had turned left at the end of the passage and kept going, unaware that she was headed in the wrong direction. She had heard her father call out to her again, a bit louder this time, and had turned around and gone the other direction, but had turned down another wrong corner and she was now very frustrated.

She blew out a puff of air noisily through her nose in an attempt to calm herself, but it was no use. She was lost in a very dark hallway and her father had either given up trying to call for her or she was just too far away to hear him.

"Papa?" She called, trying to see if he could hear her, but there was no answer. "Oh, bother." She huffed. She turned around again and tried to retrace her steps to the entrance hall, but soon found that it was impossible in the darkness.

"Papa?" She called again, louder, but still got no answer. She sighed loudly in frustration, which was quickly turning into anger. She turned another corner, trying in vain to find out where she was. It was getting warmer, it seemed, and her wool gown was making her awfully hot.

After what seemed like an eternity, but what really had to have been only a couple more minutes, she stopped and kicked the wall.

"I'll thank you not to kick my opera house, mi'lady, no matter how frustrated you are. If you need help, you need simply ask for it." Said a strong, masculine voice. He sounded a bit amused.

She started and looked around wildly. There was no one there.

"Hello?" She said tentatively, peering into the surrounding darkness. "Who's there?"

"Someone who will help you if you ask it of them." Said the mysterious voice. There was a strange melody to it that made her want to see who it belonged to.

"Where are you?"

"Quite near." She looked harder. The voice sounded as if it were right next to her, and yet there was no one there.

"Why can't I see you?"

"I do not want you to, my dear, not yet. But in time, you may. Now, where are you trying to go?" Beth was a little frustrated and very puzzled by this, but decided to go along with it for the moment. It might have been an actor. She had known many actors back home, even become friends with some of them, and they were all very mysterious and each had their little quirks about them.

"My father, Lord Arthur Davinton, the new owner, was calling me earlier and I am trying to find him. I'm afraid that I have gotten myself a bit lost, though. I would be very grateful if you would please tell me where he is. If you know, that is." She added hastily.

"I know everything about this opera house, mademoiselle. I can tell you the way to your father's quarters and your sister's, if you wish to know that. I would also be able to tell you where your own quarters are, but you have not been to them yet so I do not know which you have chosen, or which have been chosen for you."

"That's all right, thank you. If you would just tell me where my sister's quarters are, please. My father wanted me to help her."

"With what, may I ask?"

"Unpacking."

"And why must _you_ help her?"

"Because she has so many clothes and trinkets and things, it would take her forever to do it all by herself."

"And what of your own unpacking?"

"Oh, I don't need any help, monsieur. I don't have that many things, nor anything as fine as my sister's, so they can stay packed away for months at a time. Her things, unfortunately, cannot and must be hung carefully so that they will not wrinkle."

"Why do you not have anything as fine as your sister's clothing?" She looked down and blushed, now grateful that it was dark in the corridor.

"My father usually buys my clothes for me and he says that he can never find any fine clothing that has enough length for me to wear. It is not in fashion to be as tall as I am monsieur. But I am fine so long as I have something warm come winter." She smiled sweetly at thin air, somehow sensing that the mysterious owner of the voice could see it.

"Very well, mi'lady. I shall direct towards your sister's rooms. You go straight down this hallway, the way that you are already facing. As soon as you find the wall you will turn left. Trail your hand across the wall and when you come to the second opening on your right, go through it. Go all the way down that hallway, and then turn right again. Then take the third opening on your left, and then the fourth door on your right down that hallway."

"Thank you so very much, monsieur. I do hope that I shall hear from you again, and not just for directions when I get lost again." She smiled warmly and curtseyed, then she began down the hallway which her arm lifted slightly in front of her.

"You are quite welcome, mademoiselle. I hope for the same such future. And, if you don't mind me saying so," She stopped and listened carefully. "Your hair is the most beautiful color that I have ever seen." Then she heard a faint swish of fabric and somehow knew that he was gone.

Her brow furrowed. Her hair was a beautiful color? She began walking again as she tentatively touched her chignon, as the French called her bun. It must not look red in the dim light or the candles. It must look either a shiny black or an elegant brown.

She followed her hair's admirer's directions and soon came to the door, at which she knocked.

It was thrown open a few moments later to reveal her sister and her father, both looking rather annoyed.

"Where have you been?" Lord Davinton demanded of her.

"I'm very sorry, father." She said, curtseying to him quickly. "I got lost in the corridors and was told the way back by a most helpful gentleman."

"All right, all right girl. We don't need to know every single detail of your little adventure. Your sister and I must be off to have her sing for Mister Marier and Mister Reyer now, so she hasn't the time to unpack her things. Be so kind as to do it for her before retiring to your own rooms until I send someone to bring you to dinner. I don't want you to be in the way of anyone."

"Yes father." Beth said, curtseying again. "May I ask which room is mine?"

"Across the hall, five doors down to the right. Wish your sister luck." He said as he swept out of the room. Anella followed quickly after him, slamming the door on Beth's "Break a leg, Anella!"

She sighed and hoped that the director chose Anella to play the lead. Papa kept saying that she had such a beautiful, lilting soprano voice and, although Beth had never heard it for herself, she knew that her father never told her any lies. He was a bit overly critical of her and more lenient with Anella, but he had to be. He said that he was working furiously to get her married to a well-to-do gentleman who would treat her well and kept saying that it was the best that she could hope for. For no one could ever fall in love with a gangling, out of date, talentless, red-haired bean pole if they could help it.

She went to one of her sister's four trunks and opened it. She pulled out a beautiful pink silk gown and carefully took it to the wardrobe.

This went on for another hour and a half before she was done. Her father and sister had still not returned. So, she left her sister's room and entered her own. It was quite a bit smaller than her sister's but she didn't mind. It was less to mess up and therefore was less to tidy up.

Her own single trunk was sitting in the middle of her floor, taking up what little space there that there was. Next to it was a quaint little bed that, sadly, didn't look as if it would fit her long frame on it, but then again, the long single person mattresses had to be special ordered and were quite a bit more expensive. Next to the bed was a small nightstand. Across the room from the bed and night table was a very small vanity with a hard wooden stool and next to it was a small wardrobe. There was a coat stand next to the door, which she hung her cloak on, and a small table not unlike her nightstand on the other side of the vanity which held a water basin and an empty pitcher. The opposite wall from the door, though, had no furniture in front of it and was just, blank. But she didn't care. It was hers, her sanctuary, and it would do wonderfully.

She opened her trunk and hung up her own gowns and petticoats and skirts and shifts and bodices. It didn't take that long as there were only three of each kind of clothing. She also hung her two other cloaks on the coat stand with her first and set about arranging her other trinkets.

Her hair pins and ribbons and brushes went onto the vanity, a small picture of her mother in a silver frame went onto her nightstand. Her shoes went into the bottom of the wardrobe, and all of her books went into the cabinet under the wash basin save for one, which she began to read as soon as she had curled up onto her bed with her back against the wall, her left side against the pillow, and her long legs curled under her.

She read and read and read and had finished half of the book when she finally realized that no one had ever come to fetch her for dinner.

She couldn't tell what time it was, but she had obviously been there for a long time. She folded the corner of the page down and closed the book before setting it gently on her nightstand and getting up, stretching the kinks out of her back. She opened her door and found the hallway to be completely dark without one single candle or gas light to brighten the hall a bit.

So she went back to her nightstand and picked up one of her own candles and wedged it into a single candleholder from inside the nightstand's drawer, and then started down the hallway towards her sister's rooms. She stopped at the door and listened carefully, hearing her sister's soft snores. They must have thought that she had been asleep when they were getting ready to eat.

She sighed softly and turned back towards her own quarters, faltering slightly when her stomach made a disapproving growl. She patted her belly in hopes of getting it to settle and bit her lip, pondering whether or not to try and find the kitchens. Oh, what she wouldn't have given for the mysterious man to help her again. She shook her head and went back into her room where she set her candle back down on her nightstand and sat in front of the vanity mirror.

She pulled the pins out of her hair and brushed it out thinking about what the man had said. He _couldn't_ have mistaken the color, even in the dim candlelight because even now, in her own room, it was still a bright red. The dark, flickering light didn't matter because the color was so vibrant. But then... how could he think that it was beautiful? She shook her head, ran the brush through it once more before setting it down and moving back to her wardrobe.

Slipping out of the wool dress, she hung it up carefully, unhooked her corset and lay it in the drawer underneath it. Then, in her shift, she sat back down and began to braid her hair. Then, just after she had separated the strands int three parts, there was a soft knock on her door. She started slightly, the two strands in her hands falling back onto her shoulders to join the others, and called "One moment, please!".

She stood, crossed the tiny floor space to the door, swept on the cloak nearest her (the brown), and opened the door.

There was no one there.

Her brow furrowed and, clasping the cloak shut at her throat, stuck her head out and peered down the pitch black hallways.

"Do not take a step forward, mi'lady." Said a voice. "Unless you wish to put your foot into your meal." It was him. She smiled whilst also pulling the cloak around her frame tighter. "It is a simple fare but it is enough to calm your stomach until the morning."

"Thank you." She said. "You've been so kind. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you." She made a quick curtsey.

"As much as I love to hear your voice, mademoiselle, I do not wish for your gratitude, though I will accept it out of courtesy. I wish that we could talk over better things. Why did you not go to dinner?" She blushed, a little embarrassed about it.

"My father and my sister were going to send someone to get me when they went to dinner, but they must have thought that I had fallen asleep when they came by."

There was a long pause after she said this and the hall was silent. But, once again, she somehow _felt_ his presence and knew that he was still near.

"Lady," He said finally, but his words were halted and had a disbelieving tone to it. "Your father and your sister left for dinner straight after the auditions were over. The sent no one for you. Indeed, they never spoke of you at all."

Lizbeth faltered a bit at this at first, but then said, "They must have thought that I had no interest in eating. I usually don't, you know. Or else that I was still unpacking and did not want to be bothered. I'm quite sure that they would never forget about me." She heard what sounded like a soft sigh of frustration but she could not be sure of it.

"I am sure that you are right, mi'lady. Now, I must bid you good night. I hope that you enjoy your meal and that you have pleasant dreams."

"I hope that you do the same, monsieur." She said and curtseyed while picking up the tray in front of her feet in the process. She turned to go back into her room when his voice stopped her yet again.

"Oh, and Lady."

"Yes, monsieur?"

"There is no need to ponder the meaning of my words earlier. It was a compliment and a truth and should be regarded as such for I do not give out compliments lightly, nor do I give them out often. Good night."

"Good night." She said softly, but she was sure that he was not there to hear her words.

How did he know that she had doubted his words? Maybe he really did like her hair. Or maybe it was just because it was a more _dramatic_ coloring than most people's hair was. In any case, she would follow his instructions and would treat it as a compliment, however misplaced it was. She smiled to the thin air and swept back into her room, balancing the tray in one hand and dropping her cloak on the stand. She sat at her vanity again and began the simple, yet delicious, meal that the mysterious man had left for her.


	5. First Note

Chapter Four: First Note

Erik, known to the public as the Opera Ghost, sat at his organ after his latest meeting with his new project.

He had discarded his cloak, hung up his dress coat and waistcoat and had shrugged into his black velvet robe. His notes tonight were not mournful, for the moment, but were ferocious and angry. He pounded the keys in fury.

That blonde twit would surely be the new diva soprano because the director had to keep her pig of a father happy. And then the twit and her father had left for a fine restaurant to celebrate her 'audtition' without another thought to poor Lizbeth, who had been sent to her room. And the room was so tiny, too! And that bed. It would never do.

Her sister's room was three times as large at least and she even had a double bed. Whilst Lizbeth was squeezed into that tiny closet that was barely large enough for her furniture! It made him so angry that her own father disregarded her so completely. That he didn't even think of her to feed her.

And she supported him! Made excuses for him! That man had done her some of the greatest injustices that he had ever heard of a father bestowing upon his eldest daughter.

It had obviously happened before, and must have happened many times because she seemed used to going hungry.

And she had been so utterly grateful to him! It had nearly killed him to hear her enthusiastic thanks. He was merely being courteous, something that her _father_ didn't seem capable of doing. And when he had complimented her hair it had been the truth for it was the most beautiful that he had ever seen, all smooth and shiny. He had seen it down in the vanity mirror.

This mirror was different from the one in - _her_ - dressing room. It did not open, but merely let him look upon her whilst she was sitting at the vanity, but nowhere else for the sake of propriety. The brush had run through it so smoothly, never catching a single snare, but then sprining back into a soft wave as the weightof the brush had left it. It had reached her elbows.

At one point, she had hesitated, lifted a single lock of it's beauty to her eyes, pondered it, and grimaced. He had gotten up then to go swiftly to the kitchensin order to fix a tray of food for her, and to steal some for himself., but he had known what she was thinking. That he couldn't have been telling the truth or that he had mistaken the color.

He had smirked for a moment. The girl truly did not know what potential she held. Were she to but be on the stage, men would fall at her feet and ask for her permision to worship her every graceful step. It would all happen one day, hopefully quite soon, and it would all be thanks to one person. _Him._

Then, another of his students would become a star soprano from nothing. Except that this one had never been on the stage before, at least he thought, because all she had ever been told was that she would never be as good as the chit who was ashamed to be called her sister because of her hair color.

He pounded out a few final notes on the organ and then got up, pushing one of the tall candelabras down and out of his way.

He had heard her so-called 'father' talking about poor Lizbeth, saying that she was such a dissappointment to him that he had given up long ago at ever finding her a decent husband, (A noble husband more like it.) and that if someone didn't come along soon, he would have to dump her on some merchant in order to get rid of her. That in his will he had left her nothing at all and that her sister would kick her to the street unless she had a secure position at the opera.

Then Angelique had mentioned the ballet and he had laughed.

"If you can convince that clumsy, fire-haired, hippopotamus to dance in your damn ballet, you're welcome to her. But I'm warning you Mrs. Giry, (for he had stopped speaking any French by this point and had resorted to his own tongue. Meaning that only a privaleged few knew what in the world he was saying.) she's as clumsy as an ox and has the grace of a scarecrow. If you can get her, you'll find that out soon enough. She hopeless in everything but her books. Sure, she can write, but she's got no creativity in her, no charisma. She's got no creative talents, not one. She can't dance, can't sing a single pleasant note, can't read or write music, can't act worth a lark, can't play an instrument including the piano, and she doesn't even know stage left from stage right. Why, I doubt that she even knows where center stage is!" With that said, he and the little chit that had been standing next to him had started laughing, and the sounds coming from their throats were not pleasant.

And all this had been said without Lizbeth present in order to defend herself, but, the ghost reasoned, she probably wouldn't have anyway, even if she were there. That man had already broken his own daughter so much that she would have simply bowed her head in shame and embarrasment in an attempt to hide her crimson cheeks, bending to her father's every word, every whim. And she would do this until she learned otherwise, until she learned that he was devastatingly wrong, until she learned to fight him.

Lizbeth was pitiable, whilst a the same time being almost enviable.

A hard life, he thought, perfect for a stage career. It put all the more feeling, knowingly or not, into the songs, making them sound all the better. Erik sighed and ran his hands over his fake hair, smothing it, making sure that not one strand was out of place. He then sat down at the desk that had at one time held a model of the Populaire before he had set it aflame and destroyed it, much like he had the realy Opera House, three years ago, but now, it was gone. He made a mental note to make another one in order to block his own operas, were he to compose another, and also the Populaire's operas in order to know what was going on on the stage. But he wouldn't think of it now, for he had larger things to do.

He took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly as he reached for a piece of heavy parchment and his fountain pen.

"My dearest Mademoiselle Davinton," He spoke as he wrote slowly and carefully. He grimaced as he spoke her last name, thinking that she shouldn't have to be attached by anything to that pig, especially not by his name.

In Erik's views, the man did not deserve to have his eldest daughter share his last name since he insisted that she was not good enough to even be considered his daughter let alone to be invited into his company for dinner. But he simply moved on as, for now, he had to be extremely formal.

"I hope that you enjoyed your meal last night. I apologize for it being so simple. It's quality was not fit for someone of your quality, nor your beauty." He smiled slyly as he wrote this. A slid-in compliment in full view like this was sure to call her attention to itself. "What I said yesterday morning, when we met in that dimly lit hallway, I meant wholeheartedly. That I would like to meet with you on better terms than merely helping you or telling you how to find your way the next time that I saw you.

"I had hoped that it would come true but, alas, it did not. Yet, I still hold the same hope for our next meeting. It would be my greatest pleasure to ask for you to meet me somewhere, but, also alas, that cannot come to pass in the near future. Let it suffice for now to let me say that I shall alomost always be near and that, if you should have need of me, simply ask for my help and it will come freely. As I am soon to be a busy man, or so I hope, if I do not respond to you, simply leave a note with Madame Angelique Giry, whom you met yesterday as well, with 'Monsuier' written on the envelope and she will see that it is delivered to me post haste.

"I am truly sorry that our correspondense to each other could not be more direct, but, due to circumstances beyond my control, it would be extremely difficult, if not simply impossible, to do. As always, I will keep up my hope that when the next time we meet each other, it will be under much more pleasant circumstances. I remain, mi'lady, ever yours. Signed, an Admirer." He paused, then added. "P.T.O. You are _not_ as clumsy as a hippopotamus." It was a bit blunt, he knew, but he had felt compeeled to write it , because it was the truth and she needed the truth from _some_one as she obviously _wasn't_ getting it from her family.

He read the letter over while letting it dry and, satisfyed, slipped it into it's envelope. He closed it, poured the already-heated, dark red wax to close it, and, out of habit, he reached for the death's head press but stopped.

It would frighten her, no doubt, as it frightened everyone who recieved a deathhead letter from the Opera Ghost, He did not want that. So he moved his hand away from the press and tapped his chin.

This time, the wax would be left blank. He would have to order another press through Angelique. A rose, perhaps?No, too unoriginal. No flowers. An animal, perhaps. Something graceful. A bird. With a quiet beauty that one had to grow into. Aha! He snapped his fingers in victory and smirked. A swan.

Swanlings were notoriously ugly little creatures, but they grew into their grace and beauty. It was perfect. Lizbeth probably wouldn't understand at first. She may never understand it. Perhaps he would tell her someday. When, and if, he deemed that she was ready.

He left the letter on the desk for in the morning and went back to his organ. He would not sleep for fear of dreams, but he could not deliver it quite yet as Lizbeth most likely was asleep. He sat on the organ bench and pulled out a sheaf of the very best, music-lined parchment. He needed to begin composing as song for Lizbeth.

He placed his fingers on the cold, ivory keys and closed his eyes, picturing her in his mind. Her smile, her graceful movementsm her hair, her eyes. He tried to make that vision flow through his body and into his hands, but there was nothing. No music. No sounds at all - even the lake was silent and still. He opened his eyes after a few moments and took his fingers away from the keys.

This could be a problem.


	6. A Secret Admirer

Chapter 5: A Secret Admirer

Lizbeth awoke slowly the next morning.

Actually, when she finally opened her eyes, she did not know what time of day it was for it was still dark in her room.

She stretched and yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. She stayed in bed for another few moments thinking of everything and nothing. Her legs were a bit sore from having to bend them at the knee rather sharply in order to fit them on the bed, but it wasn't anything that she wasn't used to. After a while, she carefully got out of bed and sat at her vanity (All in one movement as the room was so small).

She blindly reached for her brush in the darkness and ran it through her hair a few times before setting it down and capturing it's smoothness with a black, or at least she thought it was black, bow and tying it with practiced movements. She heard something slide beneath the door and turned towards it, but could see nothing there save for a passing shadow in the gas lamplight outside.

She got up, moved to the doorway, and bent down, reaching out her hand. Her fingers made contact with parchment and she picked it up carefully. It was very fine parchment, from the feel of it. Her fingers played with corners of it and she realized, as she set it down on the vanity, that it was a letter. She fumbled for the box of matches that she had left on the vanity near the candelabra that sat atop it. Finding it, she opened it, pulled one of the thin pieces of wood out, and struck it on the side of the box.

The bright spark made her flinch for a moment, but she quickly lit all five candles and shook out the flame. She then set the used match down and again picked up the letter, flipping it over to study the wax crest, only to find that it was simply a blank piece of red wax. Her eyebrows furrowed and she bit her lip, sliding her thumb under the flap and lifted. The seal came away cleanly, still a full, round, blank disk that looked like blood. She shook her head at the thought and plucked the letter from the envelope. The paper was outlined in a dark red color as well, yet the words were written in black. The letters were carefully formed, as if someone had spent a lot of time and great care on each letter. She wondered who in the world it could be from. She shrugged and began to read it.

When she was done, she was smiling slightly. What a lovely thing to say, if utterly untrue. He must have overheard her in the entrance hall yesterday when she was speaking to Madame Giry.

She didn't really mind that she could not directly communicate with him; it was like a game almost. Sort of like a secret, for it was a secret, kind of.

Oh, she was confusing herself and getting a headache to boot. It was much to early for proper thinking. She had only just gotten up. But still. It was all very sweet. Still smiling, she slipped the note back into the envelope, closed it, and set it in the vanity drawer that held her stockings and corsets. She would think about it later. Right now, though, she was going to get dressed.

Standing, she moved to the wardrobe, slipped out of her shift, and put on a clean one. Then, she picked out her dark blue bodice and her full brown skirts and set them on her bed before going back to her vanity and pulling out a pair of brown stockings, pantalets, and her brown corset with brown lace straps for shoulders.

She pulled her stockings on, then the pantalets under her shift, then set to work on her corset. It buckled in the front as she had no maids nor a mother to help her do up back laces on finer designed corsets. And her sister would never help her lace up a corset because she didn't want the lines that the laces left behind on her fingers. And there would always be those lines if you did it up tight enough.

Once she was firmly buckled in, she slipped into her bodice and popped every simple blue button into it's proper hole before stepping into her skirts and, after tucking in her bodice, did up their respective buttons as well. She then moved back to the wardrobe and lifted out her brown boots and slipped them onto her feet before sitting back down by the vanity in order to do up the lacings. The boots had a short heel, but the old, cracked leather went all the way up to her mid-calf.

She had had these same shoes for two years while Anella had gotten a new pair last week, and the week before, and the week before come to think of it.

Ah well, Beth sighed as she finished the bow of her laces in a few sharp movements before turning back to the vanity mirror and taking her hair down again. Anella's feet were still growing and her own had stopped quite a while ago. She brushed out her hair again and braided it tightly before tying a brown and blue striped ribbon around the end in another dark blue bow. Then, she stood and smoothed out her skirts, scrutinizing her reflection in the small mirror.

Sighing again, she resigned herself that this was as good as she was likely to get, she left her room, closing her door behind her, and started down the hallway, remembering her admirer's words yesterday and finding the way to the entrance hall from there herself.

Feeling quite proud that she did not get lost again, she started up the grand staircase, turned right, and, after another few moments of walking, came upon the Populaire's office wing.

Finding her father's quite easily as it said '_Lord Davinton_' on a large sign that was tacked to the door, she knocked and heard his voice call out "Enter!" She smoothed her skirts again and opened the door.

"Good morning father." She said pleasantly, finding him at his desk, pouring over a sheet of parchment. From what she could see, the parchment was not as fine as the material of her letter, and was much longer, with words written all over it in a hurried, messy scrawl.

All she got from Arthur Davinton in return to her greeting was a grunt which she took for a hello.

"Is there anything that you would like for me to do for you this morning, father?" She asked.

Lord Davinton sighed in frustration and said in a voice that reeked of forced civility that was completely lost on his eldest daughter, "Why don't you go find Madame Giry and see if she needs you to do anything. Whatever she asks of you, see that it's done."

"Yes, father." Lizbeth said with a deep, respectful curtsey before turning back to the door and reaching for the handle.

"Oh, and before you do that," Her father called her back and she faced him again at once, demurely not looking him directly in the eyes out of respect. "Wake your sister, help her to dress, and send her to me."

"Yes, father." Beth curtseyed again and left the room.

Quickly returning to her family's hall of the opera, she knocked softly on her sister's door. In return, she got a rather loud, grunting snore so she entered the room quietly.

She moved across the large room to her sister's bed and, shaking her shoulder gently, she said, "Wake up, Anella. Father wants to see-" But before she could finish her words, her sleeping sister's fist came up and belted her left cheek. Giving a cry of more shock than pain, Beth recoiled before shaking Anastasia harder.

This woke the girl up and she blinked her eyes open blearily. "Father wants to see you." Beth repeated rather bitterly, rubbing her cheek. "In his office, straightaway."

"Oh, come on, Liz, five more minutes." Anella moaned, pulling her silk sheets over her head and rolling over.

"Oh, no you don't, Anella." Beth warned, yanking the sheets away from her sister's body and pulling her upright by her upper arms. "I know what your 'five more minutes' are. Another hour, or two. And we can't have that or else father will be cross with me. Now, on your feet. When you're the Prima Donna of this place, you're going to have to get up pretty early in order to be at rehearsals on time." Anella relented, stood up, and moved to her plush, velvet covered vanity stool.

"You don't know anything about the opera, do you Beth? The rehearsals don't start until the diva soprano gets there. So I can get up at any time I choose." She stated.

"Then how will any opera that you star in ever get done? Knowing you, Anella, you'll sleep until an hour before rehearsals are supposed to end and then everyone will only have one hour to rehearse a day." Beth jested as she pulled out a pale pink silk gown, a pink tinted satin shift, specialty pink tinted leather boots, and a dusty rose colored velvet jacket from the wardrobe and laid then across her sister's bed.

She then moved to the dresser as Anella began speaking again.

"Well, then, it shall just be your job to awaked me before rehearsal starts in the morning and get me ready for it, won't it, Beth?" Beth sighed as she pulled up a silk pink corset, satin pink pantalets, and pink stockings with lace accents at the top of each.

"I guess that it will, if father says so."

"Oh, he will, I know that he will."

"I know that, too." Beth said. "All right, out of that sift and put these on. She handed the shift, stockings, and pantalets to her sister, as she smoothed out the skirts of the gown. When the younger girl was done, Beth helped her lace up the back of her corset tightly, stretching out her stiff fingers afterwards before helping her step into the gown and then fastening the long line of pink faux pearl buttons up the back.

Then, sitting Anella down at her vanity, Beth gently brushed a wide-toothed bone comb through her sister's curls before pulling half of her thin hair back with a velvet dusty rose ribbon. Then, she helped her shrug into the jacket and ushered her out of the room before telling her to go straight to Lord Davinton's office.

She then set off in search of Madame Giry as her father had ordered her to.


	7. Memories of Christine

Chapter 6: Memories of Christine

Erik had been watching the girl, Lizbeth, nearly all morning. He had witnessed the dismissive way that both her father and her younger sister treated her. It had made him angry. It had also made him want to help her instead of - no.

No, that train of thought could not be followed through. She was a manipulative tool, a pawn in his new game, a means to an end. Even if that end either involved her or broke her shouldn't - _wouldn't_ - make him care.

First of all, though, he had to talk to Angelique Giry before the girl found her. Luckily, he knew where she would be, whereas Beth Davinton did not. He also had many shortcuts and knew his way around the labyrinth of the opera - also unlike Miss Davinton.

A part of him - a very small part, mind you - wanted to stay near the redhead in order to make sure tht she did not lose her way again - to keep the promise that he had made in the note that he would always be there. But this was something that he had to do first and the tall young woman would have to understand.

He made it to Madame Giry's chambers well before the girl had even left the long hallway in which her family's plush rooms - all except for her own - lay. He knocked softly on the patch if bare wall that led from his tunnels to her room, hoping that she was - indeed - in her room this morning.

"Come in, Erik." He heard her call softly, and he depressed the latch which made the expanse of wall slide away, creating a makeshift doorway.

"Good morning, Angelique." He said, his voice low.

"Good morning." She responded civilly. He knew that she should have been angry with him and that he, in turn, should be angry with her, and in the beginning, just after he had burned down the opera house, they _had_ been too angry to speak to each other. But, as old friends almost always do, they had forgiven each other and now things were, for the most part, the same as they had always been before Erik had become obsessed with - _her_.

"I need you to get me something from town, preferably today." He said. Her eyebrows rose.

"Yes?" She replied.

"I need a new wax crest." He explained, leaning against the 'doorframe' that he had created. Angelique sat at her vanity table running her brush through her long hair as she did every morning before braiding it. She was still in her deep blue dressing gown but neither she nor Erik seemed to mind.

"What kind of crest did you have in mind, Erik? Surely your old one is still useable?" She asked, looking at him from the corner of her eye.

"A swan." He said simply. The woman's eyebrows rose impossibly higher than before.

"A - swan?" She repeated and if he hadn't known her better, Erik might have guessed that she was stunned. The familiar motion of the brush stopped halway through her hair as she looked at Erik fully, trying to assess him.

"Yes, a swan. Also, if the elder Mademoiselle Davinton should ever give you a letter addressed to a simple 'Monsieur', I would appreciate it if you would please see to it that it is delivered to me at the earliest possible convenience, if it is, as stated, possible." These words had obviously made Angelique Giry very uneasy.

"Erik," She said, her tone suspicious. She put the brush down and clasped her hands in her lap, looking stern. "What are you up to?"

"Don't worry." He replied. "I am simply saving this new opera house from itself early. I assure you that my temper will be under control this time. What happened three years ago will _never_ happen again." He was certain that she knew that he was referring to both the fire and - _her_.

He watched her as she fiddled with the handle of her brush, half expecting her to refuse his requests. After a few moments, though, she nodded, which he found surprising.

"Very well, Erik. I will get the crest for you." She said, still contemplating her brush.

"And the letters?"

"Should there be any, they will be delivered in a timely fashion."

"Thank you." He replied, and turned to leave.

"But if you hurt that poor girl, Erik, I shall _never_ forgive you." He heard her say. He turned back slightly to see her hard, warning gaze on him and knew that she meant it.

"Then let us hope," He said. "That she sings well - and that she sings soon." And, with a sweep of his long, black cloak, he disappeared into the shadows of his labyrinth and was gone before the bare span of wall had closed.

Angelique sighed and quickly finished brushing her hair. She braided it with quick, adept fingers and hurriedly dressed. She would have to hurry to get Erik's new wax crest before practice this morning. Just as she had thrown on her shawl and picked up her cane, though, there was another knock, this time at her door. She sighed again and opened the door to find the subject of just twenty minutes earlier on her threshold. Her annoyance fluttering away, Angelique smiled at the neglected girl.

"Good morning, Madame Giry." The girl said, smiling pleasantly.

"Good morning, my dear. What brings you to my door this early in the morning?" Angelique replied. She found this girl charming and, even though she thought it unfair treatment, was glad that she had not turned out like her horrid little sister.

"My father bade me to seek you out and ask you if there was anything that I could do for you." She answered softly in perfect French. Angelique felt her face harden into a scowl for a moment before she smiled reassuringly.

"No, my dear." She assured her. "Not at the moment. But, when I get back from the city, I would be very grateful if you would help me to wake up the dancers. But not yet. Why don't you explore the opera house so that you may better get your bearings? Just be careful not to get lost." Lizbeth smiled and gave a small curtsey.

"Thank you, Madame Giry." She said. "I shall try." Then, she was gone.

Angelique sighed again. 'That poor girl.' She thought, knowing that while she was in shabby clothes that she must have had for years, her sister probably had a new garmet to wear every day. Then, after picking up her moneybag, Angelique Giry left her room.

-- -- -- -- --

Lizbeth Davinton was lost, again.

Behind the wall, Erik stifled a chuckle as he watched her furiously pace back and forth, trying to decide which way to go, through a vent in the wall.

"Are you having problems, my Lady?" he asked, making sure that his voice did not give away his amusement. The girl started slightly.

"Monsieur?" She asked hesitantly. "Is that you?"

"Yes." He replied. "Where are you trying to go?" She stopped pacing and thought for a moment.

"I don't know." She admitted.

"You don't know?"

"I was just exploring and trying to find my way around without getting lost. I don't believe that it worked. I have never had a very good sense of direction, Monsieur." Erik smiled.

"Well, what if I lead you to the kitchens so that you may break your fast whilst I quickly draw you a map of the labyrinth of this theatre?"

"Oh, would you?" Lizbeth asked, her eyes shining with appreciation. "That would be so wonderful, thank you!"

"You are quite welcome, my dear." He replied. "Turn to your left and follow this hall until it ends before turning right. From there, you will pass two doors and turn left, then pass two corridors on your right before turning right again. After that, it shall be the third door on your right. There is, unfortunately, some business that I must attend to whilst you eat, but I shall leave the map under your door and shall hopefully speak with you again this evening." He watched the girl smile and nod a bit before she spoke.

"All right." She said. "Thank you again monsieur, I am very glad to have found a friend here." She started off with a slight wave and he swept through his own dark labyrinth to get his own old map of the backstage of the Populaire which he had not needed for close to twenty five years.

After having retrieved it from a pile of dusty papers in the deepest recesses of his desk, he walked back up to Miss Davinton's room and, careful not to be seen, slipped it underneath her door. Then, he slipped straight back down to his lair.

He did not have anything to do, though he had told the girl otherwise, but he did want to try to compose something for her again. He only hoped that this time, he could hear any music within himself at all. He did not like the fact that he had sat at his organ for two hours the night before and not one single note had come to him to dedicate to the girl.

He had tried thinking of everything he could about her: Her long, vibrant red hair (one would at least think that _something_ would have come of that!) her sharp gray eyes, her milky-pale skin, the slight spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. But there had been nothing and he was unwilling to delve any further than he had already done in order to find something.

He beached the gondola at the shore of his home and stepped out with full intent of sitting at his magnificent organ once more, but something stopped him. He looked up at it from his place beside the boat and found that he didn't _want_ to go to it.

Well, _that_ had never been something that he had felt before. He had _always_ wanted to sit at it and play before - there had never been a time that he _hadn't_ wanted to play it when he had the chance to do so. There had never been this kind of - disinterest - before, but somehow he _knew_ that no music would come from his hands and he found that, subconsciously, he didn't even want to try.

He sighed with frustration and moved back to his desk and sat, staring at the empty space where the model of the opera's stage had once resided.

He really should make another one, but it would require a trip out into the city as he refused to burden Angelique with the transporting of the wood and paint that was needed, and as construction for the new opera's set would not be set into motion for several weeks and the lumber and paint would not be there as of yet he could not take it from there, and he was not quite ready for a trip out into the open, away from the opera house as of yet.

He plucked his gloves off and put them to the side before pulling a piece of heavy parchment towards him and picking up a thin piece of charcoal from a pile in one of the desk's many drawers. He lightly traced out the shape of a face, then slowly began adding the details.

Bright, sharp eyes that were framed by thick, long lashes and slightly squinted as if straining to see through darkness. An aristocratic nose with the tip very slightly upturned. Delicate, finely arched eyebrows, s strong chin, a full bottom lip paired with a slightly thinner upper and a slight quirk as the right side turned up into a small smile that looked as if it would soon grow, and a slight splattering of freckles across the nose and cheeks of the otherwise flawless skin. From there, a long, slender neck, much like a swan's, faded into the shadowy obscurity of a modest collar. Surrounding the face was long, thick, wavy hair. The dark lines and shadows, in his opinion, did not do the vibrant color enough justice, but it was what he must make do with for he had no paint.

Once it was finished, Erik studied the portrait for a moment before pulling out another piece of parchment and drawing the same face again, only this time with no freckles and straight, black hair. He added dark, heavy lines like kohl and dark, dramatic eye shadow to the eyes and an equally dramatic stain to the lips. He also added a small circlet across the high forehead and elegant gold jewelry about the neck, which this time curved into elegant shoulders which were covered by the gathered, flowing material of a toga.

"Aida." He breathed, smiling at the new portrait. This is how the part should be played - and who would hopefully play it.

He held the two portraits up next to each other and studied them both. Lizbeth Davinton really was a beauty. It simply needed to be recognized. In the world outside the theatre, it would always be shunned in her own circle as abnormal and paltry - meant for the streets. But, in the Opera House, on the stage, it would be sought after and coveted by the handsomest and richest of men from all walks of life and the girl would have her pick from the many choices.

And maybe, just maybe, she would always be grateful to him for it. Maybe an outcast of society like himself could accept what he was. Maybe she could - he stopped himself, slamming the drawings down on the desk.

What was he thinking? He had vowed that these thoughts would never again pass through his head about anyone after Christine.

He froze as pain, as fresh as the day it had first come to him, bloomed in his chest. His arms folded across the new drawing as his head was buried in them. Unwanted sobs wracked his body as they had so very many times before. Every time he thought of her name or with more than a passing comparison or reminder, this very thing happened. It had been getting lass and less frequent of late but no less painful when it did happen. All of the memories of her - both good and bad - came flooding to the surface.

He remembered how she had sounded when she had first sung for him - beautiful and sweet. So refreshing from the tortures of La Carlotta Judiacelli's so-called voice.

He remembered how awed she had looked when he had appeared in her mirror. She had come to him so easily then, but never after.

He remembered how she had looked on his swan bed - so peaceful, so innocent, so _right._

Then came the memories of the times that she had ripped off his mask. The first time, it had been down here, just after she had awoken from her faint. He had been sitting at the organ composing a sweet song for her when he had heard her soft footfalls on the stone, her beautiful voice breaking through the deep trance he usually went into when he composed. She had looked so angelic, so pure as she emerged from his bedchamber that it had almost hurt him to look at her. He had turned back to his music and that had been his fatal mistake.

She had stepped up behind him and had caressed his face. It had felt so wondrous that anyone so beautiful touch his face willingly - mask or no mask. It had felt so good that he hadn't for one tiny second thought that she would ever-

But she had. And he should have guessed that she would. She was, after all, still a child who would be curious about what was underneath the white porcelain that hid half of his face. It wouldn't have helped his cause that she had been in the ballet corps for years and that she would have heard all of the rumors about the Phantom - the Opera Ghost. She would most certainly want to know whether he was the monster that he was rumored to be - and he was.

He had seen the shocked horror on her face - though he had foolishly convinced himself then that it may have been because he had roughly shoved her to the floor, he fingers still clutching his mask. But she had given it back to him then.

The next time she would remove his mask, it would be before a full house during the opera he wrote for her. Bearing his disfigurement for all to see. There had been so many screams from the crowd, but all he could see was that apology in her eyes.

It had made him so angry. How could she dare feel sorry for what she had done? She had known-

He shook his head, pushing those thoughts away. He wouldn't think of it anymore. She had made the choice to stay with him and he had let her go. There was nothing to be done about it now. Nothing except to forget and try to move on.

Erik wiped his eyes and looked at the portraits again. This would work, he thought. This time, the Prima Donna would be pliable and like warm candle wax in his hands. She could be molded and bent to his will. And if she broke under the weight or strain of it, it would hurt him none.


	8. Another Letter

Chapter Seven: Another Letter

Lizbeth had gone to the kitchens like she had been told to do and had met the staff there. They were two lovely, sweet older ladies who she had fallen in love with almost instantly.

She had stayed with them, sitting on a high stool in front of a tall counter, eating the delicious French Toast (with much more confectionary sugar than was necessary), and talking with them about simple nothings. After about half an hour, she had excused herself apologetically and told them that she would return in the afternoon if she could manage it, and returned with only one wrong turn, which had been quickly righted, to her room.

She had carefully opened her door, whilst looking at the floor, so that if her admirer had slipped his map underneath her door, she would not disturb it. He had, and she grinned toothily with joy and appreciation.

She picked it up, dusting it off carefully, and moved to her vanity, shutting the door softly behind her. She sat down and lit the five candles in her candelabra again before studying the parchment carefully.

She bent over it closely, as the ink of the hand drawn lines of the hallways and rooms of the maze of the Opera House's backstage had faded over time. The map was, indeed, very old, but was nonetheless quite helpful. She rolled the parchment carefully into a small tube, tied one of her lesser used ribbons (A lovely red that clashed horridly with her hair.) around it in a pretty bow, and slid it in her vanity drawer with the first note from her admirer.

Smiling softly, she pulled out a box of her own rarely used stationary from the same drawer and set it upon the surface of the table, lifting the lid with extreme care. She slid out a single piece of her coveted, very fine letter paper, a delicate, old-fashioned quill like pen, and a small pot of expensive emerald ink.

She had saved her small allowance from her father for three months to buy that beautiful ink when she was at finishing school, but she had only ever used it once to write a poem. It hadn't been a very good poem, but it was her own attempt at creativity and she had kept it in this box. It was still in there, under all of the other sheets of parchment paper, and she sometimes took it out to read it over once or twice before putting it away again.

She opened the pot of ink extremely carefully so as not to pill the tiniest drop and dipped her pen into it, then set about writing a letter to her 'Monsieur'. When it was finished, she left it to dry for a few seconds as she pulled an envelope from her stationary box, and wrote a simple 'Monsieur' on the front of it. Then she folded the letter carefully and neatly and slipped it into the envelope before turning it over and creasing the flap down. She plucked one of the tall white candles from the candelabra and tipped it almost sideways over the flap of the envelope in order to let the melted wax drip onto it as she pulled a lovely pendant on a long golden chain out of the box.

The pendant was a colored engraving of a beautiful sunflower that her mother had often used as her own wax crest when she had been alive. It was one of the two things that Lizbeth had of her mother. Her father had either sold the rest of it or given it to the baby Anella after Leanora Davinton had died shortly after birthing her.

Lizbeth had been seven years old at the time and her nursemaid, Marian Applegate, had taken this pendant and a cameo pendant of Leanora and had hidden them in a pair of Lizbeth's shoes, saying that Beth would need something of her mother's when she was older.

Marian, or Nana, as Beth had liked to call her, had been right. The two pendants had been a great comfort to her when she had been shipped off to her first finishing school when she was ten years old. The school had been in Hereford County, and had been run by the sweet Lady Carterson. She had been sent to her second finishing school in Sussex when she was thirteen.

It had been a girl's boarding school during the autumn, winter and spring months named Madame Weller's School for Girls. Madame Weller had been a hard woman in her late forties and could be quite harsh when one was not on their most impeccable behavior morning, noon and night. Lizbeth had many a time gotten a sharp switch taken to her back when she could not control her temper towards the woman.

During the summer months, she had visited her father's estate in London for a mere week before she was off to another finishing school in Southampton. It had been rather pleasant there, though she had mostly kept to herself as there hadn't been that many other girls there.

She had gone to those schools until she was sixteen, when it was expected for a young lady to be old enough to put up her hair and for her father to throw her a coming out party or ball. But that had never happened as she had been packed off to yet another year round boarding school in Bristol until she was eighteen. Then had been a year in a finishing school in Cornwall, followed by another year in another school in Essex, and then yet another change to an all girl's University in Cambridge, which, though advertised as a University, was really just another finishing school for older girls.

She had been there for two years, again coming home in the summer months for a week, maybe two, before being packed off to Newcastle the first year and Dover the second. She had been twenty-two then, and if she had been any other girl, she might have been already married with one or two little children, but it was not to be.

Her father had called her back home with utmost urgency near the end of that year, and she had hoped at the time that he had finally realized that he could not keep sending her away from society forever if she was ever to get a husband. But that was not to be either, for no sooner than three days after she had gotten home, the three of them had hurried all of their belongings onto a ship and had sailed for France to fulfill her little sister's, who had been a mere fifteen at the time, dreams.

Alas, the Opera Populaire had been burnt down a mere week before their ship arrived in Calais. Her father had bought both the ruins of the Opera House and a large manor just outside of Paris the day that they had arrived and thee years later, here she was. Throughout it all, these two pendants had been a comfort to her.

Late at night whilst she was at school, she would pull them out and just sit there, holding them. It had to be late at night especially at Madame Weller's because the young ladies were not allowed any jewelry whatsoever, and, if caught with it, a girl was to have it removed, watch it be smashed into pieces, and then punished, sometimes severely, for disobeying the rules. She knew this because she had seen it happen to a girl her second year there.

The girl's father had sent her a beautiful costume jewelry pendant and Madame Weller had dome into the classroom at a most inopportune moment when the girl was showing it to all of them. Madame Weller, who had already been in a bad mood that morning (Lizbeth knew this because she had been having a hard time sitting still because of a few whips to her bottom for speaking to the cook after breakfast), had torn it from the girls neck and have smashed it with her heavy copper paperweight.

For the rest of that year, Madame Weller had taken to doing random searches in all of the girl's rooms for any and all jewelry and Lizbeth had found a sneaky hiding spot under one of the floorboards beneath her bed.

Sometimes, when she took them out and ran her fingers over them in the dark, she could almost feel her mother's presence and she didn't feel quite so alone in the world in those moments.

She ran her thumb over the sunflower now, smiling slightly and watching the hot candle wax slowly pool over the flap of the envelope. When there was enough there, she put the can back into it's holder and quickly pressed the pendant into the wax, holding it there or a few seconds before pulling it away cleanly.

When the wax had dried on both the letter and the pendant, she carefully picked all of the wax off of the pendant and slipped it back into her stationary box along with then pen and the bottle of ink. She looked scrutinizingly at the wax and could only just discern the indentation of the sunflower. It would have been much better if it had been colored was, but ah well. She would just have to make do until she saved up enough money for a colored candle that would be specifically for letters.

She picked the letter up and, after putting the stationary box back in the drawer, left the room, hoping that Madame Giry was back from the city so that she could give her this letter to deliver to her admirer.


End file.
